


In the Name of Love

by cmon_eileen



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Ireland!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmon_eileen/pseuds/cmon_eileen
Summary: this is older but i just recently visited slane castle and i felt like i could write a bit more on this!! takes place during those 6 months while they were at slane castle recording the unforgettable fire.





	In the Name of Love

A dimly lit room, a quiet melody. Bono, laying there, sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed, hands crossed over his chest like a dead man, like a soul elsewhere. His eyes closed, breathing, steady, steady, lips twitching on their own accord to lyrics from another place. Edge dared not make a noise.

They’d come to Slane Castle with rough outlines for songs that Bono had brought in from home, ready to elaborate on. Timid he’d been presenting them at first, or at least seeming so, reading out a few lines of a chorus that had come to him. “It may change,” he’d told them, clutching the notepad on which words were messily inscribed, on which you could see the haste to catch them before they were gone. “It started as a song about Reagan - you know, his hubris that he flaunts around with his tanks and his guns. But since, I suppose, I’m seeing pride in other places - as a beautiful, beautiful thing.”

It was a wonder to watch Bono write, to watch him create. Edge wanted to compliment him reverently, try and express at least a fraction of the wonder he felt, but Bono would never take the credit. It was like the songs were already written, he said, all he was doing was getting out of the way for them. That pen, he said, that ballpoint was nothing but interference. 

They set up in the castle’s ballroom, a breathtaking piece of architecture, a tall and spacious room with a domed ceiling that climbed and climbed and climbed and sent music reverberating around the whole accommodation. Did a couple live recordings, marvelling at the sound. Adam made an offhand comment on how they were lucky the acoustics of all those ghosts were good, and that thought had been on loop in Edge’s mind since. 

Bono’s eyes opened slowly, catching a glimpse of Edge who shifted on the spot, ready to leave, feeling guilty for interrupting. But Bono was sliding the headphones off his ears and twisting around on the couch to face him. “It’s perfect, Edge,” he just about whispered. 

Edge knelt down, laying his head ever so close to Bono’s on the armrest. He let the headphones be slipped over his ears, closed his eyes, and listened to Bono’s voice as it came surging through, disgorged by tapes and wires. He grinned a little as the chorus broke through, remembering Bono straining to keep that note and keeling over laughing when his voice broke. 

But he was right; the song was perfect.

When it was over, Edge slipped the headphones off his ears and handed them back to Bono, who restarted the track and held one of the speakers near his ear. “It’s funny to me,” he said, “Eno doesn’t particularly like this one.”

“Ah, to hell with him,” Edge grinned, and saw Bono smile, too. It was true--Brian wouldn’t hold back when he had criticism. But Edge was glad they had stood their ground this time. 

Bono shut off the music and stretched. “I just needed to hear it again.”

“At nearly three in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Edge offered Bono his hand, helping him up. “The circles under your eyes are getting darker.”

“I’ll sleep now,” Bono reassured. He hadn’t let go of Edge’s hand. He didn’t let go as he pushed aside the doors and climbed the marble stairs.

“Which room?” Edge asked. There were so many rooms--some of them explored, some of them slept in, some not. Adam had been sleeping in the hunting room lately, finding some charm in the chattel-print wallpaper that wound around the room. Larry had taken the room of some Lord or Lady of old, the lavish antiquity of the room ever so slightly offset by the television facing the bed. 

“What about the King’s?” Bono suggested, slowing by the door and pushing it open. It was a grand room with a grand bed, overall built for a personality like his. 

“Well, then. Goodnight,” Edge said.

“Hold on,” Bono protested, “this bed is huge.”

“Indeed it is.”

“I’d feel so small sleeping in it alone.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Stay.”

They wrapped themselves in warm, heavy sheets and each other, listening as rain fell outside. Bono’s eyes were closed but Edge couldn’t give in to the drowsiness, watching Bono return to that peaceful state. Edge could tell there was still music running through his head, from somewhere else, Bono would insist. Perhaps seeping out from the surrounding hills, the creek and the forests and the little town, dripping into his brilliant mind. Goodnight, he thought, and hoped the thought would circle through the valleys and trees and sheep and cottages to reach the boy in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> comments appreciated!


End file.
